


Puzzled

by thecookiemomma



Category: NCIS
Genre: First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-15
Updated: 2011-04-15
Packaged: 2017-10-18 02:45:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/184162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thecookiemomma/pseuds/thecookiemomma
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gibbs loves puzzles.  He always has.  That's part of what's made him a great NCIS agent.  However, he's got a puzzle of his own.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Puzzled

**Author's Note:**

> I've been rewatching the early episodes, noticing how intent Jethro can get on solving a case, and how he hates to let anyone get away. I was sitting there watching him flash Ari's pic through the terrorist database, and thought, "What if there was a pleasant mystery for him to solve?" And this fic was born. Enjoy! Comments are appreciated. Unbetaed, so all mistakes are completely and utterly my own.
> 
> Do not own anything except my silly storyline.

Puzzled

It starts off innocuously enough. Gibbs picks up his mail one Tuesday, and opens the plain, brown paper package with a gloved hand and his ka-bar. Inside is a movie: one of his favorites. It's an old black-and-white film about a Marine sniper in World War II. He smiles, looking for the return address label. It's there, but it's generic, the address from a Pac-and-Mail somewhere in town. He folds the paper meticulously, and finds an empty folder in his desk drawer to store it in. The movie goes home with him that night. He hasn't seen it in a couple months, and renting it over and over was getting tedious. He brushes the incident off, and goes on with his week.

The next Tuesday, another package arrives on his desk. It's in the same plain brown paper, and is shaped exactly the same. The only difference he can see is that the sender used a different location to send this one from. He goes through the opening process again, finding another movie. It's not his absolute favorite, but it is definitely a good one. “The Green Beret” with John Wayne lays on his desk, tempting him as he folds the paper up and stores it with its companion. He pulls out his notebook, makes a note of the time, date, details about the packaging, and contents of both packages. He writes small, just in case this is a trend. The first movie was new, all wrapped up in shiny cellophane and stickers, so he didn't see any reason not to unwrap it and watch it. This one is too. In the back of his mind, something niggles at him, telling him that it's entirely possible for someone to unwrap and rewrap a movie to make it appear untouched, but it's extremely difficult with those little stickers on top. He just usually takes his knife to them. By the time the team walks back in from their interviews with the victim's family, Jethro has pocketed the movie, listened (and lip-read) the conversation between Tim and Tony for ten seconds, and allowed a small smile to cross his face as he prepares to jump into the fray yet again. That night, he watches the movie while sanding on his boat. He sleeps well for the first time in a while.

The next week, the routine changes. This time, it's a small, thick rectangular package, about the length of his hand. It barely holds the packing labels. This one was sent from yet another location. He sits down, clears an area of his desk, gloves his hand, and cuts the paper open, attempting to preserve the overlapping labels as much as possible. Inside, sits a small, brown box, much like something cufflinks or a fancy pen might come in. He frowns, intrigued. Opening it with his gloved hand, he pulls the cotton out, and his smile widens as he spots the contents. Gibbs notices that the giver is a practical person. A top-of-the-line knife sharpener lays in the box, silver with a black handle. He pockets the sharpener, folds up the package as a matter of course, and slides it, box and all, into the growing folder. He adds the pertinent details to his notebook. When he finishes his task, he removes the gloves, pulls out his reading glasses, and begins reading his obligatory email.

The gifts are a puzzle. He loves puzzles. He can't put his finger on who it might be sending him these gifts, and that intrigues him, annoys him, and excites him by turns. If the giver knows him well enough – which they must, if the nature of the gifts is any indication, he or she will know that he won't touch anything until he's examined it, will keep track of every gift, will probably stop by the Pac-and-Mail and sit, watching customers to see what kind of people go there. In fact, he does that one day. Stops by the Pac-and-Mail with his sandwich, sits on the bench, and just watches. There isn't a pattern to the _kind_ of people that use this service, nor is there a pattern to times or days of highest traffic, not if his casual questions to the polite employee were answered accurately. Jethro grins, completely curious now. However, this puzzle is neither urgent nor important, so it gets sidelined for the more gruesome, demanding tasks of his daily work.

The next Tuesday rolls around, and it's not a package from a mailing center at all. It's a small, label-free brown bag, filled with a local coffee shop's best Colombian Roast coffee. He reaches in with a gloved hand, inspecting the packaging for tears, rips, punctures and the like, finding none. He even sends a sample down to Abby just in case. When her tests come up negative, he nods, thanks her, refuses to answer her questions, and heads home. Half an hour later, he sits downstairs, watching the news, sipping at some of the best coffee he's ever tasted. He's looked at this coffee in the window, but never bought it. Now, he just might have to start. It's a little more work, especially with the old percolator he has, but it's definitely worth it. The smile on his face is easy and relaxed, and he drains his cup before continuing the planing work on the Kelly's hull.

Once again, the gift is coffee. It comes from a different local shop, but is still packaged in the plain paper bag. He still has Abby test it, but this time, he does admit that he's found a source for it that may not be completely on the up-and-up, and Abby squeals loudly — loudly enough to make him wince – and demands more information. He shakes his head, refuses to answer, and takes home the Hazelnut Surprise. It's not a flavor he would have tried on his own, but his mystery benefactor has been exactly right every time thus far, and he's beginning to get used to the idea. He gazes over the list in his notebook, trying to find a trend. The only trend he can find is that the gifts are getting more – intimate as time goes on. Each thing pushes closer to who he is. The first two could have been easily assumed from his jacket, the third from working with him at all, and the fourth and fifth from spending a good amount of time around him. But it doesn't narrow things down enough. His wives would know all of these things, though he's pretty certain they wouldn't have sent him the first one, even on sale from the used section. Almost every agent he's served with, and many of those in his unit from the Marines, would know about the coffee and the knife. Hell, it could be _Jack_ if Jack was coming into town and mailing things through a local vendor. He sat down, poking the addresses of the different places into the computer, searching for a pattern even there. Nothing. However, once again, the urgent and important beckon, so the pleasant and diverting get lain aside.

Tuesday rolls around again, and Jethro steps into the office, whistling a tune. The agents around him give him an odd look, but he waves them off, sipping on his coffee. He's still working on those bags of high-quality coffee, so he carries his own thermos with him for now. He has the knife sharpener in his pocket; it's even saved his ass a couple times when he'd needed to cut something pretty quickly. His knives are in better shape than they have been since he left the Corps. He's intrigued, excited, and a little bit nervous about what the next gift will be. It's another tiny box from a local mail center. His mysterious giver has started using a different chain entirely to throw him off. He grins, appreciating the challenge. This box is even smaller than the sharpener's box, and Jethro wonders why the person mailed it, instead of just setting it on his desk like the coffee. He supposes it's part of the puzzle.

He pulls out his notebook, notes the information thus far, gloves his hand, unsheathes his knife, and opens the package. It's a tiny little thing: a tie tack, in the shape of the boat he's building. It's a small, gold sailboat. He doesn't wear ties that often, but occasionally, work demands it, and lately, it's seems he's been wearing them more and more. Something about appearing more professional when interviewing highly important witnesses or something. Jenny's been needling him about it. _Now, there's a thought. Jenny?_ He quickly brushes off the thought, because even if she did it anonymously, Jenny is a creature of habit. She'd have kept going to the same store, allowing him to step in, interview the workers, and find her fairly easily. And she didn't really think about things like tie tacks or knife sharpeners. No, her gifts would have been more – earthy. Pointed. He rolls his eyes at a memory or two that come to mind, and closes the box back up, finishing the now-familiar ritual by pocketing the box, storing the packaging, and scribbling down the rest of his notes.

As he sits on his sofa that night, he ponders the reasons behind the gifts. They all seem to be gifts to make his life easier. The movies entertained him, the sharpener aided him, the coffee warmed him, and tickled his taste buds, and the tie tack gave him a little personal spit and polish. They've all been things he's used. No expensive aftershave that would sit up on the shelf with the others he'd gotten from well-meaning friends, co-workers and family. No strange food items he wouldn't eat because they gave him heartburn or weird allergic reactions. Nothing beyond basic “Jethro.” Someone knew him very well, and was – if he were a woman, he'd feel like he was being courted.

He was, wasn't he? He was being courted. Someone wanted his attention. And he'd bet it was a man. The gifts were practical enough and – not sentimental at all, unless seen through his own eyes. A good cup of coffee, a sharp knife, a decent tie tack and some good military movies were the definition of sentiment to him. That narrowed the field down considerably. He had never lied about his bisexuality, but he didn't advertise it, either. He might've made a comment or two when they repealed DADT, but at the time , he was thinking about not having to deal with as many beatings and worse because of sexual identity. Even with DADT in place, he had seen enough. He was hopeful that the American military had grown – and changed – enough to allow men and women to serve no matter what. He was pragmatic enough to admit that it would take time, but the hope wouldn't die.

His thoughts twist around and around, and he considers who – which male – might know him well enough to send these things to him, know at the very least he wouldn't be offended by the implications of the gifts, and would be interested in him himself. Who would know this much about him, care this much about him, and know that the easiest – hell, probably the _only_ way to his heart was a slow, quiet walk with no unnecessary turns or surprises.

Only one name comes to mind. He grins evilly. _That sneaky little bastard. Turn about is definitely fair play._ He pulls out the notebook, and begins planning.

***

It's bright and early Monday morning, and Jethro sits at his desk, sipping happily at his rich coffee, half of his attention on his screen, the other half on the desk across the room from him. The object of his attentions hasn't arrived yet, but he's certain it won't be long. Three, two, one – he hears the elevator doors slide open, and Tony's bouncing into the room as usual, chattering about the day, the weather, some movie reference, and something to Ziva that required him to drawl her name out in that annoying, endearing way he had.

“Because, Zee-vah, that's just the way it is.” Jethro shakes his head imperceptibly, and lifts his coffee to hide his half-smile.

“That does not make any sense, Tony.” Jethro doesn't really care what the discussion is about. He looks over at his screen, then lifts his eyes, leaving his head lowered to survey the crowd across the room.

“Oh, look, Tony. Someone's left something on your desk.” Ziva lifts the rose, leaving the package alone.

“Don't touch that, Ziva. Let me look it over and make sure it's not ...” Time and experience have taught Tony his reactions the hard way. _Atta boy, Tony_ Jethro beams with pride, watching his senior agent process the gift much the way he'd done with his own. “Oh! It's Casablanca. I loaned my copy to a friend, and she gave it back all scratched up.” Jethro knows this. He exults in the sound of Tony's voice. “But why with a –” And there is the intelligent, intuitive man he'd hired all those years ago. “Ohhh.” Ziva and McGee look over at him, expecting an explanation. When, as Jethro rightly assumes, he does not explain further, they start bothering him about it. Tony deflects the remarks skillfully, and the conversation goes on.

At least until his phone rings. “Dead marine, team, let's roll.”

Later on, as they're processing evidence, doing follow-up paperwork and cross-checking things, Jethro finds a lead. He assigns Tim and Ziva to stay and work on the paperwork. “With me, DiNozzo.”

“On your six, Boss.” Jethro grins, hiding it behind his coffee. He's got a method to his madness. Well, more than one, actually.

When they enter the elevator, he waits for the door to close, the car to start moving and move to about halfway between floors before he flicks the switch. There are no cameras or microphones here.

“Boss?” Tony sounds nervous. _Good. Let him stew just a little._

“Mmm, no.” Jethro considers. “Jethro. Call me Jethro for this.” He wants to at least try to keep some line of demarcation between work and personal if he's going to flagrantly break Rule Twelve.

“Jethro. That's kind of hard for me to do, actually, but okay. What's on your mind?” He shifts a little, wiping some imaginary lint from his slacks, and looks straight at Jethro with unblinking eyes.

“I figured a little thank you was in order. That's some of the best coffee I've ever had. And you made me revise Rule Nine.”

“Really, Bo – ” He pauses, grins, and tries again. “Really, Jethro? How so?”

Jethro's sure Tony knows exactly _how_ he changed it, but he humors the man, feeling another step in this slow, maddening dance. “Rule Nine: Always carry a knife. Corollary to Rule Nine: Keep a sharpener close at hand, too, because you never know when your damn knife is gonna go dull.” He winks, pulling the sharpener out of his pocket, twirling it around twice for good measure, and pocketing it again. “Now, if I've read this correctly, you were trying to get my attention. Am I right, Tony?”

Tony gulps, not out of fear or nervousness, at least not completely. Jethro narrowly avoids letting his gaze travel southward to see the bulge he knows is there. “Yes. Yes, I was.”

“You've got it.” Simple enough, he assumes.

“Oh, god. You're serious.” Tony opens his mouth, probably to begin babbling again, and Jethro's had quite enough of that.

He steps over to the other man, braces himself against the elevator wall, arms above Tony's head, and leans in slowly, giving Tony enough time to protest if he wants. Apparently, that's not going to happen, so Jethro lowers his lips to Tony's and slowly kisses him. Tony's mouth opens immediately, welcoming him in. Jethro slides his tongue in, teasing, taunting, then pulling it out again, sweetening the kiss to something they can draw back from and still go to work.

“Damn serious. Let's get this day finished, and I'll show you exactly _how_ serious. You with me, Tony?”

“Always, Jet. Always.” And that's a new one. He's heard Lee, Leroy, Jethro, Thro, Gibbs, … various other names and diminutives, but no one has ever called him 'Jet' before. He likes it.

He says so. “I like that. But not at work.”

“Right, Boss.” And the switch is flipped, both metaphorically and physically, and they're on their way.


End file.
